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itryman flushed with ‘the barley hree,’ and
,7: ,3‘ l8 thought to herself, as a mother will, —that
0"! '3 in ?
there wasnaa marrow to her \Villiein a’ braid
5,, and .Willie was to be in three months. For a
POETRY.
From the Lz'tch_/ield Enquirer.
NE W-YEAR.
The Winter and New-Year are here,
The sun to the south has -declined ;-
The season of mirth and good cheer, _
With friendship and kindness ‘combined.
’Tis a day of reflection and thought;
’Tis a day to forget and forgive;
’Tis a day when the poor should be sought,
Their sorrows and griefs to relieve. ~
The year inns circuit has brought
. Its quantum suficit of care;
The year in its circuit has wrought
All the ills and thejoys that we share.
The Sabbath, the New-Year are one,
o, The day to rejoice in our God;
To praise him for length’ning our span,
To prepare for our future abode.
A
The Congress this winter have met—
May wisdom and truth be their guide,
May our interests they never forget,
' May coolness and candor preside:
I The President, now near his ex,
"\R.etirc from his station in peace:
_ May the man who will then take his place,
Our Itorzorand safely increase.
May our heads of department wear well,
May our foreign relations be sure;
Maygur country all lg/rants expel,
And long may our honor endure.
Lfay the seekers-iof-otlricc be shamed,
May the honest and wise be our choice;
May the North and the South, the East and the
. ,,_ west,
In 'é8Cll other’s welfare rejoice.
And now to return to ourselves--
May our country and village still tltrivc;
May our clergy think less ofthemsclvcs,
And morerofthe place where they live:
Then Connecticut, old as it is!!
\Vill have sortie friend to speak in its favor;
And though pastors for colleges run,
She has wise men and good men to save her.
My New-Year's address is now ended,
My wishes your welfare attend ;
Remember the poor, now exposed
To the winter, not yet near its cml.
Ja1t.zm'r_t/ 1, 1837. ll .
: ,.. ._ .___,_. _._.
DIISCEL LANY.
THE RECRUIT.
On a fair day, nature always turns out hun-
dreds of her best human specimens ot'unsophis—
Iicatcd workmanship. Did you ever examine
the countcnances of a rustic group around a
stall covered with oranges and swcetmeats—a
bevy ofrutal beauties. bcsieging the hearts and
the pockets ofa rural bachelor oftwo and twen-
ty. The color of oue’s countenance is deep and
various as the rainbow--a second emulates the
rose—tltc third acarnation, while the thee ofthe
;fourth, who isdeemcd the old maid ofhercom-
panions, is sallow as a daffodil after a north.
wind. Tltere _blue eyes won, and dark eyes
glance dallisction, and ruby lips open with the
jocund laugh; and there too, you may trace
the workings ofjealousy, rivalry and envy, and
other passions less gentle than love, according
as the oranges attd gingerbread happened to be
-divided amongst the fair recipients. You too,
~_*.tave heard the drums beat for glory, and the.
shrill notes oftlte fife ring through the streets,
while a portly sergeant, with a sword bright as
.a sun beam. and unshcatht-d in ltisltantl. flann.
tted his smart cockade, or heliko shook a well li-
-ned purse as he marched along, or, halting atin-
tervals, shook it again, while he harangued the
"gaping crowd—‘ Now, now my lads, is the time
for forturte and glory. There, by Jupiter! there
isthe look—-the shonlders—tlie limbs—Ihe gait
of a captain, at least. Join us my noble fellow,
and your lbrtuue is made——your promotion is
certain: God save the King. Down with the
French !' ‘ Down wi’ them !’ cries a yonngcouu-
borrowing the sword of the sergeant, waves it
uncouthly round his head, feels hirnsclfa hero,
:1 Satnpson, a C'ccsar—all the glories ofNapnlo-
on seem extinguished beneath his sword arm.“
‘ Down wi’ them !’ he cries again more vehem-
eutlv. and again--‘ llurra for the life ofa soger-!’
.zind'the next moment the ribbon streams from
his Sundayhat. On such incidents turn our
present story. Willie Forbes was a hind in
Berwicksbire. He also was the only child and
the sole support ofa widowed mother. and she
loved him as the soul loveth the hope of immor-
tality; for \Villie wasa dutiful son and a kind
one, and, withal, one of whom many mothersin
Scotland might have been proud; for his person
was goodly as his heart was affectionate, and as
often as his mother surveyed his stately figure,
figgtland.’
‘\?<.:;5Now it chanced that. before \Villie had com-
pleted his twenty-third year, they were ‘ in need
ofa bitlassie,’ as mother said ‘to keep up the
bondage.‘ \Villie, therefore went to Du use ni-
ring, to engage a servant: but, as fate would
have it, he seemed to fix on the must unliltcly
maiden for field work, in the market, At a cor-
ner ofthe market place, as if afraid to enter the
crowd, stood a lovely girl of about eighteen.-
Her name was Menie Morrison. ‘Are ye for
' hiring the day, hinny ?' said \Villic kindly.-
‘Yes,’ was the low and faltering reply. ‘And
what place wasye at last?’ ‘ I never was in ser-
vice,’ said she: and as she said this she faltered
. more. ‘Ah, where does your fatherlive; what
is he ?’ continued \Villie. He is dead, answer-
ed Menie with a sigh. \Villie paused a few mo-
meats, and added: ‘and your mother?‘ ‘Dead
too,’ replied the maiden; and tears gushed into
her eyes. ‘Puir thing—puirthing!’ said Wil-
lie, ‘weel. I’m surel dinna ken what to say
till’t.’ ‘You may look at this.’ said she, and
she put into his hands a slip of paper. It was
her character from the minister of the parish
whereshe had been brought up. ‘That's very
excellent,’ said Willie, returning the paper, ‘ ve-
ry satisfactory, very indeed. But_—-can ye--
can ye hoe ?' added he. hesitatingly. ‘ Not
well,‘ answered she. ‘I like that, that’s hon-
"‘Es'f;’ added he, hoen’s easy learned. Can ye
milk a cow?‘ ‘No,’ she replied. ‘That’s a
pity.’ returned \Villie. But helooked again in
‘her face;"he sawthe tear was still there. It was
like the sun gilding a summer cloud aftera
shower—.-it rendered her face more beautiful.—
‘ Weel, it is nae great matter.‘ added he, ‘ my
mothercan learn ye.’ At 1 Willie Forbes hired
Menie Morrison through his heart.
In a -short time, Menie became an ‘excellent
' servant. Willie and his mothercalled her ‘ our
Menie.’ She loved her as a daughter. be as a
man loveth the wife of his bosom; and Menie
loved both in return. She had been two years
in their service’, and the wedding day of Menie
few weeks, \Villie. for his character and ability,
had been appointed farm steward. He looked
forward to the day when he should be able to
¢at.;ea.farm of his own, and Menie should-be the
mistress of it. But Berwick fair came—Willie
had a cow to sell, and Menie was to accompany
him to the fair. Now, the cow was sold, and
\Villie was gallanting Menie and three or four of
5: hercompanious aboutthe street. He could not
that Menie was not there.
_/"or her here.’
voL. 20.
M-—‘
T
1:‘
led them to a booth where the usual luxuries of
a fair were spread out. At the booth Willie
found his master’s daughter with some of her
own acquaintances. She was dressed more
gaily than Menie Morrison, and her face was
also fair to look upon, butit wanted the soul‘,'the
charm that glowed in the countenance of the
humble orphan. ,
It had long been whispered about the farm
stead, and at the fartn steadsaroand it, that Miss
Jean was fonzl of \Villie Forbes; and some even
said that it was through her partiality he obtain-
cd his stewardship. Menie had heard this, and
it troubled lter, for the breeze that scarce moves
the down on the thistle, will move the breast ofa
. ‘woman that loves. Miss Jean accosted the young
steward for her fairintr. ‘Ye shall line that,’
said \Villie, ‘but there's nacthing guid eneugh
here for the like 0’ you-—come away to one o’
tthe shops.’ So saying he disengaged his arm
‘from Menie Morrison’s, and without thinking
what he did, offered it to his master‘s daughter,
and left M_enie and her friends at the lJ0.0.tll.-—
Poor Menie stood motionless, a mist seemed to.
gather before her eyes, and the crowd passed be-.
fore her like a dream. ‘Ye see how it is,’ ob-
served her companions; ‘-naething here guid
enough for her! if'ye speak to him again Menie,
I to deserve to beg on the causie.’ Her pride
was wounded, her heart was touched, a cloud
fell upon her affections, -
Such is human nature that it frequently hap-
pens that revenge and love are at each other’s
elbows. ‘Now, Menie was not without other
admirers; and it so happened, that one ofthose,
who had more pretensions to the wot-ld’s good
;than \Vi'llie Forbes, came up at the moment,
i while her bosom was struggling with bitter feel-
ling. For the first time Menie turned not away
lat his approach. He was more liberal in his
lfairings that Willie could have been. As the
~cu_stom then was, and in some instances-still is,
they heard the sound of music and dancing.-
\Villie’s rivalipressed Menie and her compan-
'ions ‘to step up and hue a reel.’ They com-
: plied and she accompanied them, scarce know-
iing what she did.
3 ln a few minutes \Villie returned to the booth,
His eye wandered
among the crowd—-he walked up and down the
,-streets, but he found her not. Something told
-'him that he had done \vrong—l-re had slighted
Menie. At length a good natured friend inform-
ed him that she was dancing with young Laird
Lister. Theintelligence was wormwood to his
spirit. He hastened to the dancing room and
there he beheld Menie, the observed of all ob-
servers, gliding among her young companions
lightly as you have seen the butterfly kiss the
flower. Fora moment he was proud to look up-.
on her as the queen ofthe room. but he saw his
rival hand hertoaseat and his blood boiled. He
approached her. She returned his salntation
with a cold glance. Another rccl had been (lan-
r:cd—--\Villie offered her his hand for her partner
in the. next. ‘I’m engaged,’ said the- hitherto
gentle Menie; ‘ but may be Miss ‘Jean will hae
no objections, 7_'fl/zcre’s any thing‘ guid enough
At this moment \Villie’s rival put
his arm through Menie’s, she stood by his side,
the music struck up, and away they glided thro’
the winding dance! \Villie uttered asharp, des-
perate oath, which we dare not write, and hur-
ried from the room. . But scarce had. he left
when confusion and sickness of heart came ov-
cr Menie. She went wrong in the dance, she
stood still, her bosom heaved to bursting, she ut-
tered a cry, and fell upon the floor.
She, in her turn, felt that she had done wrong.
and, on recovering, she left her companion. and
returned home alone. She doubted ‘not but
'\Villie was there before her. The road seemed
longer than it had ever done before; for her
heart was heavy. She reached his mother’s
cottage. She listened at the door-—she heard
not Willie's voice; and she trembled, she knew
not why. She entered. The old woman rose
to meet her. ‘\Veel, hinny,’ said she. ‘hae ye
got back again? What sort 0’ fair has there
been? \Vhere is Willie?’ Menie tttrned to.-
ward the bink; to lay aside her bonnet, and was
silent. ‘ \Vhat’s the matter wi’ ye, bairn ?’—
continued the old woman-—‘ is Willie no \vi’ ye
.—.-where is be? ‘He is comin,’ Ifoncy. return-
ed Menie; and she sobbed as she spoke. ‘Bairn!
bairn! tbere’s something no right,’ cried the
mother, ‘between ye. Some foolish quarrel, 1
warrant. But tell me what he’s done; and for
sending my Menie hame greetin,’ I'll gie him a
hame-comin !' ‘ No, no, it was no Willie’s
wyte,’ replied Menia, ‘it was mine--it was a’
mine. ”But ‘diuna be angry.’ And here the
maiden unbosomed her grief, and the old we-
man took part with her, saying—‘ Son as he’s_’
mine, ye just served him as he deserved, Me-
nie.’ Her heart grew lighter as her story was
told, and they sat by the window together,
watching one party after another returned from
the fair. But Willie was not amongst them ;—
and as it began to wax late, and acquaintances
passed, Menie ran to enquire ‘of them ifthey had
seen Willie; and they shook their heads and
said-—‘ No.’ And it grew later and later, till the
last party who left the fair, had passed—singing
as they went along; but still there were no tid-
ings of \Villie. Midnight came, and the morn-
ing came, but he came not. His mother became
miserable, and, in the bitterness of her heart,
she upbraided Menie, and Menie wept the more.
They sat watching through the night and thro’
the morning, listening to every sound. They
heard the lark begin his song, the poultry leap
from their roost,tl:e cows low on the hill, the milk
tnaiens, and the ploughmen prepare for the
field ; yet Willie made not his appearance. Time
grew on till mid-day, and the misery ofthe mo-
ther and of Menie increased.’ The latter was
still dressed in the. apparel she had worn on the
previous day, and the former throwing on her
Sunday gown. they proceeded to the townv.to-
gether to seek for him. They inquired as they
went along, and from one they received the in-
formation—‘ I thought I saw him wi’ the s0dg-
ers in the afternoon.’ The words. were asif a
lightning had fallen on Menie’s heart--his mo-
t.her wrung her hands in agony, and cried--
‘ My ruined bairn !’ And-shc cast a look on
poor Menie that had more meaning than kind-
ness in it. ' ‘
They reached the town, and as they reached
it, a vessel was drawing from the quay-I-shehad
recruits on board, who were to he landed at
‘ do less than bestow a fairing upon each ; and he
Chathatu, from whence they were to be shipped
AND
mmmootaassao aerate.
NORWALK, CONN. WEDNF.‘sDAY, JANUAR
‘M
to India. Amongst these recruits was Willie
Forbes. \Vhen be rushed in madness from the
dancing-room, he met a recruiting party on the
he drank with them——out of madness and re-
venge, drank, he enlisted, he drank again, his
indignation kindled against Menie and against
his rival—he again swore "at the remembrance
of her refusing him her hand, he drank deeper.
his parent was forgotten, he took the bounty, he
was sworn in, and while the fumes of the liquor
yet raged in his brain, maddening him on and
drowning reflection, he was next day embarked
for Chathatn. The vessel had not sailed twenty
yards from the qua_5'—Willie and his compan-
ions were waving their hats, and giving three
cheers as they pulled oil‘, when two women
rushed along the quay. The elder stretched out
her arms to the vessel—she cried wildly—‘ Gie
me back my bairn! \Villie! \Villie Forbes !‘-—-
He heard her sc-reams above the huzzas of the
recrui:s—he knew his mother’s voice—he saw
his Menie’s dishevelled hair; the poisonous
drink died within him, his but dropped from his
hand—he sprang up the side ofthe vessel--he
was about to plunge into the river, when he was
seized by the soldiers and dragged below. A
shriek ran from his mother and from Meuie;—
those who stood around thetn tried to comfort
and pity them, and, by all but themselves, in a
few days the circumstance was forgotten.
‘Who will provide for me now, when my
\Villie is gane? murmured the disconsolate wid-
ow, when the first days of her griefhad passed.
‘I will,’ answered Menie Morrison; and your
home shall be my home, and my bread your
bread, and the Husband o‘ the widow, and the
Father 0' the orphan, will bring our \Villie back
again.’ The old woman pressed her to her
breast, and called her—‘ her mair than daugh-
tcr.’ They left the farm stead, and rented a ve-
ry small cottage some miles distant, and there,
to provide for her adopted mother, Menie kept
two cows; and in the neighboring markets, her
butter was first sold. and her poultry brought the
best price. But she toiled in the harvest field,
she sewed, she knitted, she spun, she was the
laundress of the gentry in the neighborhood-—
she was beloved by all. and nothing came wrong
to bonny Menie Morrison. Four years had
passed, and they had twice heard from VVillie,
who had obtained the rank ofsergeaut. But the
fifth year had begun. and, from a family in the
neighborhood, Menie had received several news-
papers, that. as she said, she ‘-might read to her
mother what was gaun on at the wars.’ She
was reading an account of one ofthe first victo-
ries of\Vellington in the cast, and she passed on
to what was entitled a Gallant Exploit. Her
voice suddenly faltered—the paper shook in her
hands. ‘-‘What is’t, oh! what is’t, Menie?’ cri-
ed the old woman; is‘t ony thing about VVillie?
My bairn‘s no dead?‘ Menie could UUL reply;
she pressed her hands before her eyes and wept
aloud. My son! my son !’ exclaimed the
wretched-widow—‘oh! is my bairu dead?‘-—
The paragraph which had filled Menie with an-.
guish, stated that a daring assault had been led
on by Sergeant Forbes ofthe 21st, after his su-
periors had fallen; but that he alsafill mortally
woumiccl in the moment of victory. I will not
attempt to paint their sorrow, Menie puton the
garments of widowhood for"VVillie, and she
mourned for him not only many but every day.
He had fallen in the arms of glory, yet she ac-
cused herself as his murderer.
Five years more had passed. It was March:
but the snow lay upon the ground, and the face
of the roads was as glass. A stranger gentle-
man had been thrown from his horse in the
neighborhood of the widow’s cottage. His life
had been endangered by the fall. and he was
conveyed 'oeneath her lowly roof, where he re-
mained for weeks unable to be removed. He
was about fifty or sixty years of age, and his
dress and appearance indicated the military oili-
cer. Menie was his nurse; and if her beauty
and kindness did not inspire the soul of the vete-
ran with love, they moved it with sympatlty.—
He wished to make her a return, and at length,
be resolved that that return should be an offer
of his hand. He knew he was in his ‘sere and
yellow leaf,’ and his face was marked with
wounds; but for these wounds he had a pension;
he had his half pay as Major, and three thous-
and pounds in the funds. He would show his
gratitude by tendering his hand and fortune to
the village maiden. He made known his pro-
posal to the old womat1—maternal feelings sug-
gested her first reply; ‘ She was to be my Wil-
lie's wife,’ said she ruefully, and wiped away a
tear—‘ she was to be my daughter—-and she is
my daughter-.-I canna part wi’ my Menie.’ But
prudence at length prevailed, and she added-
‘But why should she be buried for me? No, I
winna wrattg her, ye are ower kind, yet she de-
serves it a’, an’ I will advise her as though she
had been my ain bairn.‘ But Menie refused to
listen to them.
When the sun began to grow warm in the
heavens, a chair was brought to the door for the
invalid. and Menie and her mother would sit
spinning by his side, while he would recount his
‘ battles, sieges, fortunes.’ And thus on an eve-
ning in May, as the sun was descending on the
hills, ran his story;——‘Fifty ofus were made
prisoners. We were chained man to man, an(l
cast into a dark narrow, and damp dungeon.-
Our only food was a scanty handful of rice,
once in the twenty-four hours. Death in mer-
cy thinned our numbers. A worse than plague
raged atnongus; our dead comrades lay amongst
our feet. The living lay chained to a‘corpse.—--
All died -but myselfand my companion to whom
I was fettered. ' He cheered me in fever and
sickness. He took the water from his "parched
lips and held it to mine. And, maiden I have
been interested in you for his sake—-for in his
sleep he would start, and mention the name of
Menie !’ ‘
‘ O, sir !’ interrupted Menie and the old woman
at once, ‘ what—-what was his name?’
know,’ replied the Major, and continued--He
succeeded in breaking our fetters. We were left
unguarded. ‘Let us fly.’ said he; but I was
unable to follow him. He took me upon his
shoulders. It was midnight. He bore me to the
woods. For five days he carried me along, or
supported me on his arm, till we were within
sight of the British lines. There a party of na-
tive horsemen came upon us. -My deliverer,
with no other weapon but it branch which be
‘M;
street, be accompanied them to their quarters,
‘ Ifthe world were mine, I would give it to .
i. NO. to.
._r
had torn from a tree, defended hirnselflike a lion
in its desert. But he fell wounded, and was ta-
ken prisoner. A company of our troops came
to our assistance-I was rescued, but my noble
deliverer was borne again into the interior: and
three years have passed, and I have heard no
more of him.’ A
‘ Butit is five years since my \Villie fell, sigh-
ed Menie Morrison. Yet she brooded on the
word, Jlfenie.
A wayfaring man was seen approaching the
cottage. Ashe drew near, the eyes of the Major
glistened, his lips moved, he threw down his
crutch. He started unaided to his feet—-‘.Gra-
cious Heaven! it is himself!’ he exclaimed;-«
‘ my companion! my deliverer!’
The stranger rushed forward with open arms.
‘ ZltIen_ie!—=mother!’ he cried, and speech titiled
him. It was \Villie Forbes! Menie was on his
bosom—-his mothers arms were about his neck,
the old Major grasped his hand. Reader, need
I tell you more. \\-"illie Forbes had fallen
wounded, as was thought, mortally ; but he had
recovered. He had been txinrle a pris0.t1.er. He
was returned. Menie gave hitu her hand. The
Major procured his discharge, and made him his
heir. He took a farm: and on that farm t.l‘..e
Major dwelt with them, and ‘fought his battles
o'er again,’ to. the children of \Vi|lic and Menie
Forbes.
THE TRUE USE OF RICHES.
BY M. M. NOAH.
The editor of the Star ever and anon strikesofl
in that free and easy style which is peculiar to
him, sketches of niii'tln8l'S and society, which
evince a perfect s,at‘~02'r 'viure, and an admirable
knowledge ofthe world and its usages. \lVe al-
ways make a point to reproduce these scenes of
real life in the columns of the Mirror, as they
are pervaded with a mild spirit of humor and
cordiality towards the writer’s fellow men, and
their observance would have auseful effect up-
on morals and manners. The subjoined is as
pertinent and applicable as any of the flora-
tian satires and epistle$ 011 the subj_oot.—_-—.N. Y.
.Mt'rreo-.
‘ VVhy am I not a rich man ?' said a very in-
telligent person to us, when looking at a splen-
did equipage that rattled down Broadway. It
was the equipage ofa man of wealth, a man of
yesterday; a paraettu, in the more fashionable
phrase, who made a fortune suddenly by buy-
ing farms and selling them out in lots, and who
was determined by the splendor of‘ his house,
the magnificence ofhis entertaintnents, and the
richness and variety of his liveries, his loud talk
and consequential air, to show that he did_ not
belong to the qpiet families ofsotne hundred years
of distintztion and wealth, who never offend by
ostentation, nor exhibit a heraldry to which they
are not enIit!?'~*l, "”Vc.t_ra:-.e at several ofsimilar
growth--the flclzpz v,.ptcb Sprung up m.e,.nigh,
like Jonah's gourd; some by Spo-..l...:..... ...t...,'.,
by succession; some by fortunate marriages,
and some more creditably by mechanical labor
and ingenuity. ‘\Vhy am Incta rich man?’
said my friend. ‘I mttst purchase somewhere
in the west-—or in the moon—-no matter where;
I must plunge into the current of speculation,
and swim on to fortune and eminence. I must
be rich; every body tries to be rich—and why
should not I be rich? I am liberal in my dispo-
sition, hospitible and free. I should like to have
a coach and pair-a house of corresponding mag-
nificence. I should like to throw it open sev-
eral times yearly, for the gay and fashionable
throng; I should like you to dine twice a week
with me, and punish a few bottles of old, very
old Madeira. \Vhy am I not rich? I deserve
to be rich,’ said he. tnusiug, and at intervals
dropping his voice, as he slowly withdrew his
eyes from the long cavalcade of coaches and
phaetons, and whiskered footmen.
Hundreds, no doubt, thought as he did ;-—
hundreds expressed the satne feelings, and felt
the same desires, andall under the delusion that
money is wealth; that sheer palpable gold and
silver constitute riches; and it is under this de-
lusion that thousands ofour citizens are racking
their brain by night, thoughts by day, toil-
ing and sweating, and managing, and twisting,
and turning out ofthe common, settled and reg-
ular order ofthings to get gold and silver, under
theimptession that with their possession they
will be rich. Statesmen, politicians, nay the
government itself, isinoculated with the same
mania, and ifall could succeed, we should be
compelled to blacken our own boots, and wait
upon ourselves at table. The delusion, howev-
er, consists in this: in considering a piece of
gold the only representative of wealth, and dis-
regarding what we in ourselves possess, which
is an equivalent towealth. \Vc are for the most
part rich, without exactly knowing it‘. The an-
vil ofthe blacksmith, is to him, with his handi-
craft, a valuable mighty lump of gold; he lives
by it, and to his mind, habits. and wishes, as
well as he lives who pays out his eagles and
half eagles in the market. So with the painter
—so with the professional man, the sculptor, the
musician, the man of talents; all who possess
the means of acquiring wealth, are actually
wealthy; forif temperate and industrious, all
their faculties are controvertible materials into
wealth; nay, are more valuable and durable,
and available than the mere man of gold and
silver. Let such a tnan swim to the shore
from his shipwrecked vessel, with the mechanic
and the man ofmind, and see who can succeed
in earning that morsel of bread necessary to sus-
tain life. What does the man of princely in-.
come do, which gives to him so many supposed
advantages, and opens the door to so much
mooted happiness? He rises late; turns his
day into night; dawdles his time away in tri-
fling {linking employments; drives his horses
and dogs; gives grand dinners for ostentation.
and large parties for fashion; and is at besta
poor, discontented, dyspeptic patrician, respect-
ed only for his gold and silver, and of no possible
use to the community.‘
Take the man ofmoderate means. and he em.-
ploys his life as'it ought to be employed: a
mixture ofetnployment and recreation, or ra-
tional pleasure and discreet hospitality; go
down to what is called the poorer classes, which
we call the substantially rich—tbe hardy me-
chanic. and see how he enjoys life‘. Rising with
the sun, his labor does not. cease until the sun
sinks in the ‘vest. He returns to his little fami-
ly and tenement aruight, and finds an ample
Y 18, 183
- -§.__._
:m."_l_
-..a
board spread by a frugal wift-.; the smoking
steak, the good cup of colfce, the White bread
and butter, and an appetite sltarpened by labor.
His repast over, he takes his chubby boy upon
his knee, pinches his dirty, rosy cheeks, and
runs his fingers through his tnatted hair; talks
with his wife on household atliiirs; readsthe pa-
per~,or-cunverses with his neighbor on the best
means ofsa,ving, the commomvealtlt; and when
the hourof rest arrives. he stretches himself on
his hard but healthy bed». 8-tltl 50.0.1.1 his senses
are steeped into forgetfuluess, and his sleep is
sweet and sound. ttntil the shrill clarion of the
cock awakens him on the morrow to rcn_evvetl_
labor. But he has no coach. Ilas lt€‘l1£)i?_'-.—-
He has only to go into the street and. hold up his
finger, and a splendid omnibus and four elegattt
horses drives up to the sidewalk, and he jtttnps
in; it is his coach while he occupies it, and he
leaves it when and where he pleases. Can
the titan ofgoltl and silver do more '! It is all
an error, a miscnt~.ceptior., a delusion, \Ve are
all rich when we possess within ourselves the
means of acquiring wealth. \V'e have on poor,
excepting the idler and the drunkartl.
Vet:-y Tang‘/a.——Tlte Liverpool Journal says:
Mr. Hinton ot'Lamb.eth, has a horse which he
calls .Iunipcr, that he has taught to open the
barn door and feed himself; and when Mr. H.
desires to ride, be has nothing to do but call for
Jtiniper, when instantly the horse will open the
stable door, and taking the saddle and bridle in
his tnouth. come to his master. \Vhcn he has
finished riding, he takes oil his saddle and bri-
dle, which, the horst-., of his own accord, carries
back to the barn. he then closes the door, seizes
the curry-comb in his titouth, curries such parts
as he can, then hangs it up and rubs himself
against it. The Duke of Bucclengh has offer-
ed Mr. Hinton a thousand guincas for the
horse.
Toztg/ter Yc(.—-l"rince, a tame lion on board
his Majesty's ship Ariadne, had a keeper to
whom he was mttch attached; the keeper got
drunk one day, and as the captain never forgave
the crime, the keeper was ordered to be flogged.
The grating was rigged on the main deck, op-
posite Prince's den, a large b,ar-red up place. the
pillars strong, and cased with iron. \Vhcn the
keeper began to strip, Prince rose gloomily from
his couch, and got as near to his friend as possi-
ble. On beholding his bare back he walked
hastily round his den, and when he saw the
boatswain inflict the first. lash, his eyes sparkled
tire, and his sides resoundetl with the strong and
quick beating ofhis tall; at last, when the blood
began to flow from the unlbrtunate marfs back.
and the clotted ‘cats’ jerked their gory knots
close to the li_0n‘s den, his fury became tremen-
dous, he roared with a voice of thunder, shook
the strong bars ofhis prison, as ifthey had been
nsiers, and finding his efforts to break loose on-
availing, he rolled and shrieked in a manner the
[Hunt (Cl nan.--.- .- .,_ ._. , _______‘___'_¢:k_a‘ ,1.,m fin ‘
tain fearing he might break loosc, ortlercdfiffe
marines to present at Prince; thisthreat redoub-
led his rage, and at last the captain desired the
keeper to be cast off and go into his friend. It
is impossible to describe the joy evinced by the
liou; he licked with care the mangled and bleed-
ing back ofthe cruelly treated seaman; caress-
ed him with his paws, which be folded aronml
the keeper, as ifto defy any one renewing a si-
milar trcatmcnt, and it was only after several
hours before Prince would allow the keeper to
quit his protection, and return among those who
had so ill-used ltim.—M‘artir:'s 1;Iis.‘ory of the
Brz'lz'.s~h Colonies. ‘
A Rtzasonfor Disscnt.—When I resided at
Runcorn, there was a woman of the name of
Mrs. Johnson, who gave the best reasons for pro-
ferring one place of worship to another that l
have heard. Mrs. J. A having left the established
church and gone to a metiiodist chapel, was ask-
ed the reason for so doing; to which she repli-
ed, ‘ That it was on account of her pic being ex-
actly ready when the methodist chapel came
out; wltcreas, when she attended the churt-h, it
was always overdone.‘ It would appear that
Hrs. J. indulged herselfsunday with a pie, (not
a bad Sunday's ditt_ner,) which she put into the
oven when she went to church. and as the. morn-
ing service of the church of England is rather
long, she found that her pie was always too
mttch done when she came out, and not quite so
juicy as she could have wished. The tttctltm
dist service was rather shorter, and her pic was
done to a T. This pic, very properly, decided
Mrs. Johnson's religion. If people were all as
simple-hearted and as candid as Mrs. Johnson,
and would bring themselves to believe as she
evidently did, that ifthe heart be rightly atTect.-
ed there was less difference between the ditfer-
ent modes of religious worship, than between a
pie being overdone or underduue, there would
not be so much quarrelling about religion.
’ Tour on the Loire.
The following capital sketch is full of point,
piquancy, and sly-humor, and is one ofthe clev-
erest hits at the times that we have seen for ma-
ny a day. The writer has aimed his arrows with
great skill. and struck the target directly in the
centre. We copy it frotn the lastnumber ofthe
N. Y. Mirror.
VALUABLE VVATER PRIVILEGES.
BY GEORGE P. Moxuus.
How much real comfort every one might en-
joy, if he would be contented with the lot in
which heaven has cast him, and how much
trouble would be avnid_ed if people would only
‘let well alone.’ A moderate independence,
quietly and honestly procured, is certainly every
way preferable even to immense possessions
achieved bythe wear and tear of mind and bo-
dy so necessary to procure them. Yet there are
very few individuals. let them be doing ever so
well in the world, who are not always straining
every nerve to do better, and this is one of the
many causes why failures in business so frequent-
ly occur among us. The present generation
seem unwilling to ‘ realize’ by slow and sure de-
grees; but choose rather to set their whole hopes
upon a single cast. which either makes or mars
them forever! ,
Gentle reader, do you remember Monsieur
Poopoo? He used to keep a small toy-store in
Chatham. near the corner ofPearl-street. You
must recollect him. of course. He lived there
for many years. and was one of the most polite
and accommodating of sl.opltcepers.. ;Wheu_n
juvenile. you have bought tops and ‘marbles of
hima thousand times. To be sure you h_a_'ve;—
and seen his vinegar-visage lighted up with, I
smile as you paid him the coppers; .a'nd,.'you
have laughed at his straight linte queue and his
dimity breeches, and all the other oddities ltltat
made up the eve: "day apparel of my little
Frenchman. Ah, Iperceiveyou recollect him
now.
Well, then, there lived Monsieur Poopoo. ev-
er since he came from ‘dear, delightful Paris,’
as he used to call the city of his nativity, there
he laid aside $5000 against a_ rainy day, there
he was as happy as a lark—andther_9. in all hu-
man probability, he would have been to this ve-
ry day, a respected and substantial citizen’. bad
he been willing to ‘ let well alone.’ But Mort-
sieur Poopoo had heard strange .stoties,ab_out the
ptodigious rise of real estate, and having _'under-
stood that most of his neighbors had become sud-
denly rich by speculating in lots, he-_instantl—
became dissatisfied with his own lot, fortltwit ’'
determined to shut up shop, "turning every thing
into cash, and set about making money in ear,-.
nest. No sooner said than done; and our quan-
dam store-keeper a few days afterward attended
a most extensive sale of real estate, at the Mer-
chants’ Excbange. . _\
There was the auctioneer, with his beautiful
and inviting lithographic maps—all the lots as
smooth and square and enticingly laidout as,
possible—-and there were the speculators—and
there, in the midst of them, stood Monsieur
Poopoo. _
‘Here they are, gentlemen,’ said he of‘ the
hammer, ‘the most valuable lots ever ofléred for
sale. Give me a bid for them ?’
‘One hundred each,’ said a bystander.
‘-One hundred !’ said the auctioneer, ‘scarce-
ly fiflmiglt I0 pay for the maps. One hundred
-.-going-rfifty-—gt)ne! Mr. H. they are yours.
—-A_ noble purchase. You'll sell those same
lots in less than a fortnight for 50 thousand
dollars profit !'
lllonsienr Poopoo prieked up his cars at this,
and was lost in astonishment. This was a much
easier \,t'a_v of accumulating riches than selling
toys in Cbatham—strcet, and be determined to
buy and mend his fortune without delay.
The auctioneer proceeded in his sale. Other
parcels were offered and disposed of, and all the
purchasers were promised immense advantages
for their enterprise. At last came a more valu-
able parccl than all the rest. The company
pressed arountl the stand, and Monsieur Poopoo
did the same.
‘l now otlier you, gentlemen, these magnifi-
cent lots, delightfully situated on Long Island,
with valuable \vater privileges. Property in
fee, title unexceptionable, terms of sale. cash,
deeds ready for delivery immediately after the
sale. How much for them ?’ Give them a start
at something. How much?‘ The auctioneer
looked around; there were no bidders. At last
he caught the eye of Monsieur Poopoo. ‘Did
you say one hundred, sir? Beautiful lots—val-_
uuble water privileges-—shall I say one hundred
for you ?’ .
' Om.’ mon.s'2'cu'r; I will give you von hundred
dolla a piece. for de lot vid de valnarble vatare
privalege; c'cst' ca.
‘Only one hundred a piece forthesc sixty va-
luable lots, only one hundred. going, going, go-
ing, gone!’ ‘
Monsieur Poopoo was the fortunate possessor.
The aur-tioneet‘ congratulated him, the sale clos-
ed, and the company dispersed.
‘ Pardonuez moi, monsieur,’ said Poopoo, as
the auctioneerdesccnded his pedestal, ‘you shall
excuscz moi. ifl shall go 1.9 votrc btt,rcau_, your
counting-house, vcr quick to make every ting
sure wid respcc to de lot vid de valnarble vatare
privalege. Von leetle bitd in do hand he vorth
two in dc tree, c'est vrai—eli!’
‘ Certainly, sir.’
‘ Vell den, allorzs.’
t.....?.*.;,' cJtr.r.;=nttr.a.st..tr.tm"ed *0 the cerettn
and the deeds of the property delivered. Mon-
.\i1'llu‘u\'JlIuto vv . u
and as he was about taking his leave, the auc-
tioneer made him a present ofthe lithographic
outline ofthe lots. which was a very liberaltbing
on his part. considering the map was a beautiful
specimen ofthat glorious art. Poopoo could not
admire it sufficietttly. There were his sixty lots,
as uttiform as possible, and his little gray eyes
sparkled like diamonds as they wandered from
one end ofthe spacious sheet to the other. '
be snapped his fingers in the very wantonness,
of joy as be repaired to Delmonico’s, and ordered
the first good French dinner that had gladdened
his senses since his arrival in America. . _ .
After having discussed his repast, and washed
it down with a bottle ofchoice old claret. he re-
solved upon a visit to Long Island to View his
purchase. He consequently immediatelyhired
a horse and gig, crossed the Brooklyn Ferry,
and drove along the margin of the river to the
\Vallabout, the location in question. '
Our friend, however. was not a little perplexed
to find his property. Every thing on the map
was as fair and even as possible. while all the
grounds about him were as undurated as they
could well be imagined. and there was an arm
ofthe East River running quite into the land.
which seemed to have no business there.
puzzled the Frenchman exceedingly: and, be:
ing a stranger in those parts, he called to a far-
mer in an adjacent field.
‘ Mon ami. are you acquaint vid dis part ofde
country--eh ?’ -
‘ Yes, I was born here, and know every inch
of it.’ '
‘Ah, c-‘est bien dat vil! do,’ and the French-
man got out of his gig, tied the horse, and pro-
duced his lithographic map.
‘Den may be you vill have do kindness to
show me do sixty lot viclt I have bougltt. vid <36
valnarble vater privalege.’ .
The farmer glanced his eye over the pap-
er.
‘Yes, sir, with pleasure; if you will be good
enough to get into my boat, I will row you out
to them !'
' Vat you say, sa re ?’
‘ My friend,’ said the farmer, ‘this section <;'.
Long Island has recently been bought up by the,
speculators of New-York, and laid out fog 8,, great
low tide. \Vhen this part of the East R-i=_v_er is
filled up, it will be just there. lots, you
will perceive, are beyond it; not are now all
covered with water.’ ‘
At first the Frenchmart was incredulous. »He‘
could not believe his senses. _
ever gradually broke upon him, heloolted at-the
away and gazed them all over again. T;,.,,;
was his ground, sure enottgh, but then it ,c_ou_ld
over it!
the lid,took a pinch of snuff and restored it to‘bi_s';
waistcoat pocket as before. Ptoopoo wasovideut.
ly in trouble, having ‘ thoughts tliat ollen lie" too_
deep for tears,’ and as his grief was also too big”
for words. he untied his horse, jumped into the
gig. and returned to the aucttoneerin allpossiblq
taste. .
It was near night when lte returned to the
auction room—his horse in a foam and himself;
in a fury. The auctioneer waslcaningbact;
he took in the pennies for his kickshnws, there
sieur Poopoo put these carefully in his pocket, _
Poopoo's heart was as light as_a feather-, and A
This ,
city, but the principal street is only -
As the facts how.-,-
sky, the river, the farmer. and then he turned 3'”
not be perceived, for there was a‘.1-hue; figwipg .
He drew a box from his waistcoat_
pocket, openedit, with an emphatic look upon ’
Norwalk Chronicler